


La Vie en Rose

by maichan, sirsable



Series: A World Where Roses Bloom [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Baking, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, East of the Sun and West of the Moon Elements, Embedded Images, Epilogue, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fanart, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Irish Steve Rogers, Laundry, M/M, Making Out, Marriage Proposal, Not Stand-Alone, Roses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 00:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maichan/pseuds/maichan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirsable/pseuds/sirsable
Summary: The first summer of Bucky and Steve's new life together. Basically just pure, tooth-rotting fluff. This is an epilogue to the work La Belle et la Bête and not meant to be read alone. Also includes art inside!





	La Vie en Rose

**Author's Note:**

> The epilogue to La Belle et la Bête, as promised! Not meant to be read alone. Embedded art by [Maichan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maichan). <3

Sometimes, Bucky looks back at the last few years and wonders how this came to be his life. Not that he’s complaining—it’s the opposite, in fact, because now he has a wonderful boyfriend, a small house, and just enough income to keep them happy. So maybe the house is a little old, and maybe his boyfriend speaks in other languages when he gets angry just because he knows it pisses Bucky off. In exchange, sometimes he hides Steve’s shirts or pretends he’s shrunk them in the wash, and he finds that small repair jobs keep him busy in a way that settles his mind.

But if you’d told him two years ago what he’d have to do to get here, he would have referred you to his psychologist.

It’s a good day for summer—not too humid, with clear skies and a steady breeze. Just after breakfast, they’d opened all the windows and doors to let in fresh air. It makes a bit of a mess, but Bucky thinks that Steve likes to do it for the sheer novelty and fondly lets him indulge. Bucky stretches out on the floor like a starfish, still in his boxers and undershirt because the perk of owning your own home is that you can dress however you like inside of it. Steve, on the other hand, is fully dressed and _baking bread_ , of all things.

“It’s too hot to be using the oven,” Bucky calls.

“You said that last week,” Steve calls back. “And it’s cooler than that, now.” He pops his head around the corner to glare at Bucky, a streak of flour across one cheek. “If you don’t stop complaining, I won’t make that currant bread you like.”

Bucky sits up in mock outrage. “You wouldn’t _dare_ —you like it as much as I do.”

Steve raises his eyebrows in challenge. No one is more stubborn than Steve Rogers when he puts his mind to it. Bucky finds it endearing and infuriating by turns. This is one of the endearing times, so he just rolls his eyes and finally gets off the floor, stretching carefully before he pads into the kitchen.

“Do you need help?” He peers into the other metal and glass bowls on the counter, each with its own little lump of dough waiting to prove.

“Just the timer. Thirty minutes to start with, please,” Steve requests when Bucky goes to set it.

“Cooking anything else?” Bucky asks, leaning against the counter.

“Not until dinner.”

“So, you’re telling me you have half an hour that’s completely free.” He stalks toward his boyfriend until they’re close enough that Bucky can feel the breath stutter in Steve’s lungs.

“I might have some plans,” Steve breathes, pupils dilating quickly.

“Too bad.”

Bucky reels Steve in for a kiss—something hungry but soft—and hears Steve whimper into it a little. Nine months and his Stevie still gets weak when they do anything in daylight. Sometimes he kisses with his eyes open, too, which was odd to get used to at first. He’s doing it now, when Bucky peeks to check, but he guesses that he’d do it too if he spent—

“How old are you, anyway?” he asks as soon as they break for air.

Steve, who had been leaning in to claim another kiss, stops in confusion. “What?”

“All this time and I never asked how old you actually are.”

“I don’t—”

“I know you’re _legally_ 28, but when were you born? Originally?” Steve’s magic-produced but apparently completely legal passport has a birthday better suited to avoiding questions like, _‘You’re_ how _many centuries old?’_

“I was born on the Fourth of July, in the year of our Lord 1718.”

“ _You’re three hundred years old?!_ ” Bucky squawks. Steve flinches and covers his ears in protest, although his expression is apologetic, as though he’s let Bucky down somehow. Bucky catches the look and kisses Steve on the nose. “I’m just surprised,” he reassures. “That wasn’t quite what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“A hundred? Maybe? Man, you—” he cuts himself off because he was going to say, ‘You must have seen a lot of shit,’ but realized that, no, Steve _hasn’t_ seen much, confined to his grounds as he was. He knows a little about that, at least—how Steve couldn’t leave the defined boundaries of his domain, but could change _where_ that home was every thirty years or so. 

All he had to do was wait for the new spell and find somewhere to replant the rose he would later entrust to Bucky. The rose, Steve said, that always marked to his new home.

“—You’re old,” Bucky says instead. “No wonder Missus Anderson down the street likes you so much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve says primly.

“She stares at your chest when you walk past,” Bucky tells him gleefully. “You haven’t noticed?”

“It’s not my fault modern fashion is so small!”

“Hey, I know for a _fact_ that men used to wear tight stuff back then.”

“Not farmers! How practical do you think it is to wear a waistcoat when you’re trying to till a field? I miss my clothes,” he mourns.

“I miss them, too,” Bucky sympathizes with an exaggerated pout. Then he grabs Steve’s shirt and yanks it over his head, letting it drop to the floor before going for his sleep pants.

“Bucky, _no_ ,” Steve laughs, twisting to get away. He dodges his boyfriend’s grip and staggers towards the living room, one hand holding his pants up to protect his modesty.

“You act like I haven’t seen everything!” Bucky catches him in the living room, snagging him by the wrist and launching them both onto the couch, which slides a few inches with the force of it. Steve gives an unattractive snort that sets them both laughing again, giggling while they wiggle around in an effort to get more comfortable. They have a generously-sized couch, but neither of them are small men and there’s only so much space available. Steve ends up sprawled mostly under Bucky, wedged towards the back of the sofa while Bucky keeps him safely blocked in on the other side. 

Bucky heaves a small, contented sigh as he settles, running his flesh hand through Steve’s mussed hair and smiling into his blue eyes. “Hi, there.”

“Hello yourself, _a ghrá_ ,” Steve murmurs, stroking Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky leans into the touch, turning his face to nuzzle at the palm of Steve’s hand. It makes the blond laugh, as does the way Bucky nips at his fingertips playfully. Bucky looks up from under his eyelashes as he drags butterfly kisses up his inner wrist and catches the way his boyfriend’s pupils slowly dilate. It makes him smirk and lean in to nip at his jaw, wiggling his hips in clear invitation. He’s close enough to Steve’s throat to taste the low groan that rumbles from him. He parts his lips and sucks lightly at Steve’s clean skin just so he can pull another noise from him, purring into the feeling of Steve’s hands tangling in his hair.

Kissing Steve still hasn’t lost its novelty. The way he parts his lips tentatively at first, as though unsure if Bucky truly wants him, only to heat up at the first swipe of a warm tongue on his lips. How eagerly he takes the lead the moment Bucky relinquishes control; the neat way he fits them together, until there’s barely a breath between them. Today, Bucky takes control and Steve lets him, hands moving across Bucky’s back, up his arms, gripping his hips. But he’s pliant and hums happily on occasion, content to let Bucky do what he likes. And what he likes is to taste his boyfriend slowly and fully, soaking in the firm softness of his skin and the warmth of their bodies pressed close and the flush high on his cheeks whenever Bucky pulls far enough away to check.

They make out until Steve’s shifting movements start to feel less sexy and more restless. Bucky raises an eyebrow and chuckles when Steve manages to look embarrassed as well as turned on. He plants a loud, smacking kiss on Steve’s cheek and rolls off while he’s still laughing, catching himself easily on the floor while Steve is still struggling up from the cushions. Bucky offers him a hand up, catching him when he almost buckles.

“My leg fell asleep,” Steve tells him plaintively. Bucky pouts and makes exaggerated cooing noises, pretending to fuss until Steve laughs and shoves him away, leaning down to knead at his leg with a grimace. “You’re ridiculous. Leave and do something about yourself while I work this out.”

“I could work it out for you,” Bucky suggests lewdly, just to hear him laugh again. He awkwardly adjusts himself in his boxers and retreats to the bathroom to splash some water on his face and cool down a little. He’s just decided to put on actual clothes and get the day properly started when he hears Steve cursing from the kitchen. It doesn’t sound pained so he takes his time, digging up a pair of shorts to protect his modesty in case he decides to step outside. He rounds the door into the kitchen, snapping an elastic into place around his hair.

“You!” Steve rounds on him, all mock anger and exaggerated pouting. “You distracted me. I’ve left them too long and now they’ll be flatter than a slate.”

“I seem to remember you enjoying being distracted,” Bucky contradicts mildly. “And the expression is ‘flat as a pancake.’”

“My pancakes aren’t flat,” Steve sulks. “Unlike this lot.” But he’s folding currants into the dough in his hands, so he can’t be that upset. As soon as he’d done with the round, Bucky pushes aside the next bowl and nudges him out of the way.

“I’ll do it. What else are we doing today?”

“Laundry?”

“ _Laundry_?” Bucky echoes. When Steve says it like that… “You want to do it by hand, don’t you?”

Steve gives him his most unimpressed look. “Yes, I do.”

“For the millionth time, we have a _machine_ for that!”

“And for the millionth time, it’s been _eating_ our _socks_!”

“I know you’re not gullible enough to think it’s literally eating them, Steve. They’re probably caught in one of the traps or something. We just need to check.”

“So you want to unplug the washer, pull it from the wall, tilt it back so one of us can crawl under there and check for socks that might not even be there, and then hook it all back up?”

Bucky grits his teeth. This is one of those things that Steve does that Bucky has a love/hate relationship with. He always knew that Steve was stubborn—there’s no way he would have survived for 300 years with his sanity intact if he hadn’t been stubborn. But “The Washing Machine Fight,” as Bucky thinks of it, boils down to a contest of wills: Steve’s unnecessary distrust of this single piece of technology versus Bucky’s deeply ingrained distaste for taking any longer to get his clothes clean than strictly necessary.

“Steve, if we do it your way, we’ll be washing clothes for hours.” Steve has a washing board. He has a _clothes press_. Which he made. _By hand_.

“Just our smallclothes,” Steve bargains. “And my favorite shirts.”

Bucky starts to nod, only to be interrupted.

“And the pillowcases. They don’t feel clean the other way! And they’re not that big!”

Bucky eyes his boyfriend carefully, sizing him up. “You just want to go outside, don’t you?” he asks shrewdly. “You want to do something.” Steve’s glance to the side tells Bucky everything he needs to know. “You could have just said, Stevie.”

“It’s not just that,” Steve mumbles. His eyes flit everywhere but Bucky’s face, clearly embarrassed. “I like it sometimes. We used to do it that way, and then…” He waves a hand vaguely in the air. “You know: no hands. It wasn’t like we lived in filth until the machines were invented!” he adds, suddenly defensive. “But it was easier to just kind of… let them clean themselves?”

Bucky sighs and tugs Steve closer by his waistband, all irritation dissipating. “So the machine feels like cheating,” he surmises. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“It sounds stupid,” Steve grumbles, still refusing to look Bucky in the eye. “And you’d already teased me about the television.”

“You also knew about televisions,” Bucky points out. Not unreasonably, he thinks.

“It sounded stupid,” Steve repeats stubbornly. When Bucky tries to duck to the side to catch his eye, he turns his face away again. Sighing, Bucky reaches up and scratches his fingers through Steve’s short beard. It’s the closest he gets to the former action of petting through his fur, and it’s a comfort to them both. Sometimes he suspects that it’s moments like these more than anything else that prompt Steve to keep it. Sure enough, after a few seconds, Steve starts to relax into the gentle motion, eventually tilting his head until Bucky can comb through his hair as well.

“It’s not stupid.” He doesn’t let Steve look away this time, firmly gripping his chin until he looks through his lashes at Bucky. “We’ll compromise. Every other weekend, you can pick one basket’s worth and we’ll do them by hand. But they have to be the same colors.”

“One and a blanket, and all of it goes on the line.”

“No towels.”

“No towels,” Steve agrees. He looks more cheerful already.

“Then it’s a deal.” They kiss, quick and chaste, and Bucky gives Steve’s beard one more scratch before releasing him. “And here you had me convinced you really didn’t trust the washing machine.”

“I don’t,” Steve grins. He goes to gather what they intend to wash. “I still don’t know what happens to half our socks. And it ruined your third-favorite shirt, remember?”

“If I didn’t love you so much…” Bucky threatens.

Steve reappears, still in his pajamas but with the laundry in tow now. “Oooh,” he sing-songs. “You looove me. Bucky Barnes is in loooove.”

“Damn right I am,” Bucky growls. He grabs Steve around the waist and wrestles him to the floor, laughing and shouting when Steve plays dirty by aiming for all of Bucky’s ticklish spots, any one of which Steve could literally find in the dark. Steve’s face is bright and shining and flushed with happiness and Bucky thinks for the millionth time that he’s never been so, so in love.

They end up roughhousing until the timer for the second prove goes off, at which point Steve finally leaves to set up his clothes-washing station and Bucky goes to start baking the bread. They work side-by-side in the shade of the back porch, scrubbing clothes and flinging water at each other like children to stave off the climbing heat.

It’s surprisingly hard work washing clothes by hand—by the time the bread is ready, Bucky is starving. He ducks out early to put together a plate of warm bread, cold chicken, and whatever vegetables are in their refrigerator. Steve pretends to sulk when Bucky walks back outside already munching on a handful of food.

“So now I’m doing all the work?” he grumps.

Bucky answers by shoving even more food in his mouth and grinning. Steve wrinkles his nose in disgust, then rolls his eyes and opens his mouth pointedly. Bucky purposefully shoves a too-large piece of chicken into Steve’s mouth, hunching over the plate protectively when the blond flicks more water at him, jaw working furiously.

“You’re disgusting,” Steve informs him, abandoning the wash in favor of grabbing more food.

“Mm-hmm,” Bucky agrees. He leans up against the railing and knocks his foot against Steve’s, offering up a goofy grin. “But you like it.”

“God help me.” Steve nudges him back, but he’s smiling like the sap he is.

Steve is, as usual, the last to finish eating. He’s nearly dry again by the time he returns to the washing tubs, trading the tasks with Bucky so that he’s rinsing is Bucky is wringing. It makes Bucky feel a little like he’s in an episode of Little House on the Prairie, and he makes a mental note to formally add it to the list to watch with Steve later. He’s trying to recall if he saw any Laura Ingalls Wilder books in the mansion when a flash of silver catches his eye. For a moment he smells hot sand, but the splash of water and Steve’s happy hum bring him back quickly.

“I should get you a ring,” Bucky says out loud. It’s partially a distraction from his own thoughts; an effort to keep him focused firmly in the present.

“I already have one,” Steve says pointedly, pulling his hands out of the water to show him.

“I mean a _real_ ring,” Bucky corrects. He abandons his task to kiss Steve’s palm. It tastes like clean water and smells like soap. “A nice one.”

“This _is_ real,” Steve protests. He tucks a finger under Bucky’s chin and kisses him softly, and really this is all that Bucky ever needs. “You gave it to me and I accepted. I don’t know why I’d want anything else.”

That ring cost Bucky ten euros in a tourist shop, but Steve is already twisting it around his finger like it’s made of pure gold. “You deserve better anyway.” Bucky taps at his own, worn on his right because there’s no way to put one on his left without limiting his mobility.

Steve’s face does that funny thing it does when he’s feeling both upset and soft at the same time. “I deserve the best,” he finally settles on, “and I have it. So I’m happy.”

Bucky’s mouth twists into a tremulous smile. “Yeah?”

“Well, I’d be happier if we could finish the laundry,” Steve suggests.

“Oh my God.”

“Since someone keeps trying to leave all the work to me.”

“Stop.”

“Eating snacks and mooning about.”

“Steve!” Bucky laughs. They shove at each other again, melancholy forgotten in the bright sun and cool water.  
  


* * *

  
  
Bucky shoos Steve away to change while he finishes pinning up the clothes. He took the first break, so he figures it’s only fair that Steve gets to cut out early. He’s just putting away the tub when Steve emerges from the house dressed in rough work clothes, a spare pair of gloves sticking out of one of the pockets.

“Thought you might want to garden?” Steve says lightly. He glances at Bucky from the corner of his eye, waiting.

It’s a code, of sorts. Bucky gardens sometimes to clear his head, or to burn off excess energy without really leaving the house, or just to ground himself. Steve doesn’t always do it with him, but his choice of clothing is a silent offer of company. And here Bucky thought he’d been so suave earlier. Something about his expression must have tipped Steve off.

“It could do with weeding,” Bucky concedes, reaching for the gloves, “and I guess I could use an extra pair of hands.” His heart does a funny little jump when his tacit invitation makes Steve beam with happiness. “But you gotta wear the hat.”

Steve’s expression falls. “Bucky, no.”

“Steve, yes,” he counters. “The sun’s still high.”

“It’s afternoon!”

They’ve had this argument at least once a week since spring, after the first time Steve stayed out too long in his human form and burned so badly that Bucky had nearly dragged him to a doctor. Steve had just been so happy to be able to feel warm air on his skin and watch the sunlight on his arms instead of on fur, and to hold Bucky’s hand even after it absorbed too much heat to be comfortable. He’d thought it charming at the time, but after… After, he’d remembered how his fur used to provide cover for the ghostly, delicate skin underneath in those summer months, and how even that had never been enough. He never seemed particularly bad more than two days in a row, but Bucky deeply suspects that whatever the enchantment did to change him might have regrown or regenerated his skin. After all, Steve hadn’t apparently aged in all that time—what other effects had it had? He’d decided then and there that Steve had no idea of how much sun would be too much, and probably can’t be trusted with that judgment call at least until the end of the season.

“Can you check the tomatoes for worms?” Bucky asks instead, neatly sidestepping the argument. “I’m going to get sunblock.”

“I put on sunblock, too!” Steve shouts after him, but Bucky can also hear him rummage around for the gardening tools to take with him so he knows Steve isn’t too upset.

Steve has taken to hiding what he sometimes sulkily refers to as The Hat. The Hat is made of pale gold straw, wide-brimmed enough to protect Steve’s face from the worst of the rays, and even has a nice little splash of color in the form of a jaunty green ribbon. Bucky is about eighty percent sure Steve secretly loves it.

...Sixty percent sure.

Well, _Bucky_ loves it, which is why he bought it for Steve. Even if his boyfriend thinks he can get out of wearing it by stuffing it in… Lord, the linen closet this time. 

Steve is faithfully checking over the tomatoes when Bucky finally emerges. Between doing the laundry by hand and Steve’s work clothes, Bucky realizes that he _definitely_ has to sit Steve down to watch Little House on the Prairie. Steve discovered the existence of coveralls not that long ago, and now he loves them for all his outdoor work. It’s too adorable for Bucky to tell him to stop, but it’s the absolute dorkiest thing Bucky has ever seen. He needs to take a picture and send it to Becca.

He plunks The Hat down on Steve’s golden head and yanks the brim over his eyes just to be obnoxious. He manages to snap a few pictures while Steve sputters and tries to adjust it to sit properly on his head. Bucky finishes shooting off his text just as Steve turns to squint up at him.

“You better not be sending a picture to your sister,” Steve warns.

“Too late,” Bucky grins. He catches the gloves Steve throws at his face and slips them on, then crouches down to claim a reluctant kiss.

“I’m just encouraging you,” Steve grumbles to himself, knee-walking to the next plant to inspect it.

“Yup.” Bucky pops the ‘p’ and happily starts poking at the soil, testing the density and moisture.

“And you’ll never leave me alone,” Steve continues.

“Nope.” Another popped ‘p’; another weed tossed into the bucket.

“I’m glad.”

Bucky looks up in time to catch the dumb, soft smile tucked into the corners of Steve’s lips as he carefully pushes at the leaves of the shrubby plant in front of him. He honestly doesn’t know what to say to that, so he opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind:

“You should wear gloves when you handle the roses.” Good job, Barnes. Romantic.

“It’s easier to gauge pressure when I’m not wearing them. Less likely to stick myself. It’s growing well, though. I’m glad we planted it. I’ve never had a home without one before.”

Bucky wonders what it says about them that what others might see as a reminder of pain is something they’re nurturing in their front yard. “You know these are invasive, right?” he says instead. “They’re probably going to take over the whole neighborhood and it’ll be our fault.”

“If the homes of our neighbors are beset by enchanted flowers from the Folk then I will take full responsibility,” Steve declares, pinching off dying leaves and moving aside half-formed blooms.

“Pretty sure that’s not the point,” Bucky sighs. “At least no one will have any shortage of tea.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste—he can still taste the bitter dregs and biting tang of the rose hip tea Steve forces on him any time he so much as sniffles.

“Speaking of tea!” Steve pauses in what he’s doing to give Bucky a conspiratorial smirk. “Mrs. Martin said to thank you for the blueberries, and she’ll send around some of her scones when they’re done.”

“She’s welcome,” Bucky replies automatically, then grimaces when he realizes how pointless it was to say that to Steve and not their actual neighbor. 

“Actually, she told me to thank my husband.” Steve picks up his shears and makes a single, decisive cut before setting them aside. “I didn’t bother to correct her. I believe everyone thinks we’re married.”

“Probably,” Bucky admits cautiously. He knows that kind of thing wasn’t done when Steve was growing up. Is this because he brought up the rings? Maybe Bucky should pull back on the bigger, public gestures? 

“So I thought, why not?” Steve continues, shaking flower free with careful fingers. “We’ve already got rings, like you said, and I remember Rebecca said that it’s legal to do that here.” He turns and makes a vague gesture with the pale pink rose in his hand. “We’ve got a home, and love, and rings. What do you think?”

Bucky narrows his eyes, sizing up his boyfriend. “Are you serious?”

Steve’s eyes sparkle with wicked humor, but it doesn’t take away from his sincerity. “Everyone thinks we’re married already. You don’t want to make liars of them all, do you?”

Bucky gapes a little, eyes wide, the beginnings of a disbelieving smile starting to pull at his mouth. “That’s crazy. When?”

“I looked it up and the clerk’s office doesn’t close for another…” he glances at the stretch of their shadows on the ground, “two hours?”

“Oh my god, you’re fucking serious.”

Steve turns his wide, dazzling smile to him, brandishing the rose. “So? What do you think? Shall we go get married? Let me make an honest man of you? Or at least let me try.”

Relief and anxiety and pure, giddy joy bubble up in an astonished laugh. Eyes sparkling, Bucky looks at Steve in his ridiculous hat and coveralls, delicate fingers lofting a rose he’s almost forgotten about, and the two of them dewy with sweat and smelling like leaves and dirt and surrounded in summer heat and it’s perfect. Bucky laughs again and this time it feels a little more real when Steve starts laughing with him because all that happiness has to get out somehow.

“This is the most ridiculous—Yeah. Yes! Yes, you amazing idiot. Let’s go get married.” He can barely stop beaming long enough to get the words out, and he leans in and uses his left hand to take the offered rose so he can hold it clear while he does his best to kiss Steve stupid.

Their knees get in the way and Steve’s hat falls off his head and they’re smiling and laughing too much to coordinate their lips properly, but he loves every sun-soaked minute of it because it’s completely, truly, irrevocably them.  
  
  


 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck with us on this journey! I tried to make this as domestic and tooth-rotting as physically possible. XD I'm in the middle of another Bang right now (not to mention the holidays and about a million birthdays), but I do have some vague plans for future works in this universe. I definitely have a lot more backstory and headcanon for things that I haven't had the opportunity to write. I can't promise a time frame or anything, but if you're interested then please feel free to subscribe. <3
> 
> As always, you can watch me not understand Tumblr [@sablessx](https://sablessx.tumblr.com/), although I recently figured out the ask box so there's that! I'm friendly, I promise. :3
> 
> Mai is amazing and beautiful and probably understands Tumblr better than me [@maichan-art](http://maichan-art.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome! <3


End file.
